Special: The Contest that Inebriates

I visit Nainital every year. It is a small, pretty hill station in the Shivalik range of the Himalayas. Surrounded by mountains on 3 sides (and Tibet and China beyond) and the Naini Lake in the centre, the quaint town which has a flavour of the days of the Raj with the splendid and charming old courts, the magnificent Raj Bhavan, famous schools like Sherwood and St Joseph's, and the elite Boat House Club on the lake itself, has many of my treasured childhood memories echoing from its forest-slopes and hidden streets.

It was the summer of 1999. I was all but 16 and the whole family had again gathered in our ancestral home (called 'The Priory') where my grandparents had exchanged vows some 47 years ago.

This June was special. There was an anxiety, a buzz in the air, a hope and an expectation, a strange feeling of being connected, of patriotism - something which can't be quantified or measured or even explained. It could only be felt! The World Cup was back, but the wounds of that fateful day at the Eden Gardens when Kambli left the ground in tears were still fresh, when the fortress had to be emptied, courtesy the rioting and unruly crowd, and eventually when the semi-final was awarded to the Lankan Tigers.

The grand stage was before us, yet again. At the same time, very strangely, the country was at war in Kargil with its old foe Pakistan.

Like any other crazy and emotional devotee of the game, I was nervous, yet excited! I could not walk without swinging my arms, as if I held an imaginary cricket bat. It had become a habit, maybe a habitual necessity!

As my usual ritual before any major series, I worked on the permutations and combinations - predicting the winner for each match, the possible semi-finals line up, India's chances, strategies, our best 11 to field, the toughest opposition, a study of the various grounds and pitches, the BBC's weather forecast for all the venues lest rain should wash away any match. I had downloaded the schedule a year in advance and 3 weeks prior to the start of the tournament, I gave it colour on a piece of white chart paper.

It was the evening before the big match. The sun set early here because of the altitude. I could see Raju, my favourite childhood Boat-Wala, row with a new found vigour and intensity. I went to the local bazaar known as the Tibetan Market. The national flag was being distributed everywhere. The kids were playing their own Team India vs Team Pakistan game in the maidan (known as the flats) next to the lake. There was an uneasy murmur in the streets, a clash eagerly awaited, the transistors poured in the news of the heroics of our jawans in Kargil. They were simultaneously switched to the cricket news, no one quite knew what to anticipate, at Old Trafford or on Tiger Hill, on who would win the showdown between Tendulkar and Akram. They were puzzled and scared - Pakistan had again unearthed a young raw talent - the Rawalpindi Express - a certain Mr Shoaib Akhtar. They had world class all rounders in Mahmood and Razzaq, and no one had quite forgotten how we were slaughtered by the butcher Saeed Anwar in Chennai a few years ago. They all wondered if Ajay Jadeja could repeat his performance of the 1996 quarter-final, would Venkatesh Prasad bowl with the same fire and gusto in his belly as he did against Aamer Sohail back then.

A very interesting conversation which caught my attention was between this Maulvi balloon seller and a Candyman, who seemed like a staunch Hindu Brahmin. The Maulvi, who was a self proclaimed die-hard Indian Cricket Fan, argued that the large intake of red meat in the Pakistani team's diet as compared to the 'ghas phoos' (Vegetarian food) their Indian counterparts fed on was the main reason for the disparity in their speeds. The Hindu Brahmin had to reluctantly agree. I had mixed views on the subject. Javagal Srinath was bowling well over 95 mph throughout the World Cup and with all due respect, he seemed a vegetarian.

The D-Day: 8th of June 1999 - I could not sleep the previous night, was restless and had butterflies in my stomach - had almost dreamt the match in the couple of hours of sleep I could gather, only to wake up to the reality. The excitement on the streets was palpable.

When it comes to cricket in India, everyone is an expert - from the local book seller to famous Bollywood personalities, from the Maulvi to the Brahmin, from ex-Indian cricketers to bureaucrats, even the usually cricket ignorant middle class Indian bahu for once decided to aberrate from Ekta Kapoor's 'kyonki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi' - such was the occasion.

The jawans in Kargil also sent the Indian Cricket Team their best wishes.

The Naina-Devi Mandir, the nearby Mosque and the towering Cathedral were full of devotees and agnostics (including me) alike. For a change they were all praying, together, for their beloved motherland.

Thousands gathered in the maidan where a giant screen was put up by the local district administration. The streets were deserted. The Maulvi was there, so was the Brahmin. It seemed like mini Manchester, our very own battleground in the lap of the Himalayas. There were trumpets, the tri colour flying high, faces painted with orange and green, slogans of 'Bharat Mata ki jai', 'jeetega bhai jeetega, Hindustan jeetega'; yet there was tension, yet there were doubts of self belief!

We won the toss. There was a roar the tiger in the nearby Corbett Park would have been proud of.

A copybook Tendulkar cover drive off Akram, the first boundary of the match and the crowd was on its feet - 'sublime, beautiful, majestic', commentated Gavaskar.

Ramesh was our first casualty. Then in the 21st over, there was a deathly silence - their beloved son, the little master departed. The heads went down. Our run-rate dropped. The rivalry in the centre was intense. One could see the nerves and the occasional exchange of words and tempers being lost. It was a small battle inspired by the real war some 7500 kms away.

Each boundary brought a smile to the thousands gathered, each six was applauded. Simultaneously, news of the heroics of our Jawans was flashed - stories of utmost bravery, courage and valour.

We recovered well and Dravid and Azhar took us to a respectable 227.

There was a fear that the total was slightly below par. After a few samosas and tea from the local dhaba, I again joined the bandwagon.

There was jubilation when boom boom Afridi departed and soon Prasad got the better of Anwar. We kept picking up wickets at regular intervals - a loud cheer after every wicket that fell. The original Sultan of Multan, Inzy, gave us a real scare with his partnership with the fox Saqlain, but with Inzi's dismissal, we all knew we had once again (as we had in all our previous encounters) got the better of our arch-rivals in a World Cup.

10th wicket: Akram-caught Kumble bowled Prasad. There was a roar. This time I think it would have scared the Lion in the far away Gir! India won by 47 runs and interestingly the margin of victory was symbolic of our independence!

There was a frenzy. To many, this was it - their World Cup was over. The tri colour flew high. They hugged their families and friends. I was dancing in the maidan with the thousand fanatics. There was ecstasy. There were tears of joy.

The Maulvi and the Brahmin forgot about their theories. Ironically, Prasad, who did not cross 128 kph in the match, took a five-for and was adjudged Man of the Match. There was madness everywhere. The mountains were screaming and reverberating with the beats of the Kumayun drums. The usually calm lake was overflowing with the emotions of its several thousand natives. The chanting started. I joined the victory march shouting slogans of 'saare jahan se accha', 'India India'.

People burnt torches and flames. The procession passed through every remote street, gathering momentum and voice as more and more joined. The singing and the dancing continued till the wee hours of the morning. There was mass hysteria never seen before in the history of this no longer quaint hill station. The nation had come to a standstill or so it seemed.

Messages poured in from everywhere. Our gladiators in Kargil were jubilant and inspired. They suddenly felt the warmth in the vast cold-fighting for over a month with no respite. They finally had something to cheer about. The sun never set that evening, in Nainital or in Kargil.

The local whiskey and the Black Label were overflowing. Every one was intoxicated - from Raju the Boat-Wala to the elite of the Boathouse Club, from the local Halwai to the kin of the Governor.

I too was high, very high, not by the alcohol but by the victory, by the sheer occasion, by the CONTEST THAT INEBRIATES!!!